Entry 348

These moonlit verses will lack for cohesive scenery.I can see the page but my letters are illegible.

His shed stank of shucked shells.

Fucking hell. All I have today is poppycock nonsense. Bells. Bells. Bells.Rung, yet the young still thrill for what tolling comes.Ring no more.Mute dust clumped:Remains of brass angels.Heavenly cinders shower us all.

Electric chair bluesBeats a live choir Always performing the same tune.